


words are all we have

by someplacewarm



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: 80s batman coming in clutch during quarantine to fill your Batdad feels, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someplacewarm/pseuds/someplacewarm
Summary: With Alfred out of town, Jason and Bruce find themselves running the show in the Manor. As it turns out, neither of them can ever catch a break.Or the one where Jason and Bruce are both injured and like the truly dynamic duo they are, they deal with it together.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 14
Kudos: 189





	words are all we have

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through my WIPs and found this little thing deep down in my drafts so I decided to post it, as a qurantine treat :) This is heavily influenced by Jason's Detective Comics run aka the god tier robin!Jason run. 
> 
> Set after Batman: the Cult (though it's not very heavily referenced, so it's fine if you haven't read it).
> 
> Title is from the song 'Overjoyed' by Bastille.

Jason felt a stretch in his tendons as he ambled around the kitchen. The pain seared all the way up from his thigh to the very corners of his gut, making him gnaw his lip in frustration. 

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, quickly looking over his shoulder to see if he had been heard. That was unlikely, considering Alfred was out of town and Bruce was upstairs in the study. 

He hadn't been in the Manor long -- only a year and six days -- but this was the first time it was just him and Bruce in the house. Alfred being out of town meant the two would have to look after each other and frankly, Jason didn't know how to feel about it at all. Until last week, Jason had only just come around to seeing Bruce as a father figure. It was an awkward transition, one he told himself was just another weird occurence in a microcosm of weird occurrences. However, when the so-called cult of Deacon Blackfire had overthrown Gotham City and kidnapped Batman, Jason had felt a familiar pang of fear. A phantom ache in his ribs, gripping him tightly. 

It had reminded him of his mother. Reminded him there was a possibility he could lose Bruce too. No one was invulnerable, not even the Batman himself. Since then, there had been a paradigm shift. Of course there had been a shift -- he'd taken a bullet to the thigh for a man he hadn't completely trusted yet. For his _father_. 

His hands trembled slightly as he pinched salt into the stew. It had only just started to bubble, dispersing a welcoming warmth into the air. It was only fair he help around the house, considering Bruce was still recovering. Even if he pretended he was fine, Jason knew he was still shaken. He didn't think anyone would take particularly well to being brainwashed by a psychopathic cult. 

He heard someone clear their throat behind him. He snapped his head around to see Bruce standing in the hallway, still in his sweatpants and loose t-shirt he wore to bed sometimes. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, walking into the kitchen. He no longer had bags under his eyes, which Jason took as an improvement. The frown, however, was a staple-Bruce-thing so he didn't push himself to worry about that. 

Jason balanced his hip against one of his crutches to get a better look at Bruce. “What does it look like I'm doing?” 

“We talked about answering a question with a question.” 

“You do it all the time,” Jason argued, spinning the ladle around the stew that was now starting to thicken. He took a sip and smacked his lips in exaggeration. “Perfect.” 

“You're supposed to be in bed,” Bruce continued, in the same monotone that he began with. “Resting.” 

“So are you,” Jason pointed out simply. “Besides, I _have_ a reason to be here: I'm making stew.” 

“Stew?” 

Jason raised the bowl in his hands and stretched it out for Bruce to see. “Alfred taught me,” Jason said, feeling mildly proud of himself at how perfectly braised it had turned out. “Figured if one of us had to cook, it might as well be me.” 

“I could've cooked,” Bruce grumbled. 

“Sure,” Jason agreed, rolling his eyes. “But you've had a rough week so I figured I'd help. It tastes really good, you know.” 

Bruce stepped forward, his eyebrows knit together like he was angry. Or disappointed? Jason hadn't yet mastered the art of reading Bruce's minimalistic emotional cues, assuming he had emotions of course. Jason didn't think he'd been hardwired with those. 

“Jason,” Bruce said. “You've been shot in the thigh. You haven't even recovered yet.”

There was something in Bruce's tone that was _so_ patronizing. Like he was almost begging Jason to fight with him. Jason raised an eyebrow. “I've cooked for mom-- and dad, too -- like, a hundred times before. I've got this. Once when Dad got super shitfaced I made him this really weird ramen-omelette crossover that actually tasted pretty gourmet so I've got us covered, old man.” 

“I'm not your father,” Bruce said shortly. “I can take care of myself.” 

Something akin to pure rage burned it's way through his chest, slowly like a spreading poison. It pushed him, made his ears go hot with shame. He wanted to scream; he had been childish, stupid. Assumed events of the past week had knit them closer together. That Bruce saw him as a son, like Jason saw him as a father. Yet, Bruce's clipped statement only proved the obvious: Jason was still a subordinate. Someone Bruce could talk down to and bark orders at. 

_I'm not your father._

“Fine,” Jason snapped. “Fuck the damn stew.” 

He yanked his crutches, ignoring the dull aches piercing at his entire body. If Bruce wanted to be ungrateful, to be distant, then that was perfectly fine by Jason. He'd be Batman's Robin at night but just Jason Todd by day. No one's damn son. 

“Jason--”

“Don't talk to me,” Jason snapped, through gritted teeth. “Leave me alone!” 

He stormed up the stairs, taking two at a time, despite the debilitating pull it took on his thigh. 

And he definitely did not let his angry tears fall until he reached his bedroom and slammed the door loud enough to reverberate throughout the house. 

.

It was well past noon when Alfred arrived home and another hour before he made his way down to the cave. 

“The strangest incident ever seems to have occurred, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, walking over to Bruce with a tray of tea in his arms. “Master Jason seems least bothered by my arrival.” 

Bruce groaned internally. Jason had voiced how much he missed Alfred every day on the phone, but hadn't come downstairs at all when Alfred came back. Bruce suspected he was still deeply mad, considering the boy would always make time for Alfred despite his differences with Bruce. Ever since the argument over stew, Jason had locked himself up in his room. He hadn't even come down for lunch.   
“It's difficult to come down the stairs with those crutches.” 

“Oh I know, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied calmly. “I do not for a second doubt the boy's affections for me.” Alfred now looked directly into Bruce's eyes, sending a shiver down Bruce's spine. It was strange how Alfred still had this stern grip over him after all these years. “I do, however, suspect that something is wrong. Care to enlighten me, sir?” 

“He's upset with me.” Bruce explained, staring away from Alfred and into the computer screen. 

“What did you do?” Alfred sighed. 

Bruce turned in his chair, feeling all but ten years old again. “He's moody. We don't know if it's because of something I did.” 

“And as a constant witness to your detective work, I'm well aware of how wrong assumptions can be, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “But I do take pride in the fact that I know my boys and Jason Todd has always greeted me, come rain or shine, except in instances --” 

Alfred stood directly in front of Bruce. 

“-- where he was trying to avoid you.” 

Bruce groaned. 

“So tell me what happened.” 

“He's supposed to be resting,” Bruce replied, pinching his brows together. “He came downstairs and began to cook instead.” 

“What did he cook, Master Bruce?” 

“Beef and carrot stew,” Bruce answered, crossing his arms. 

“Ah,” Alfred replied knowingly. 

“What?” 

“What did you say to him?” 

“I told him he should rest,” Bruce said, feeling like a witness in an interrogation. “That I can take care of myself.” 

Alfred frowned. “And?” 

Bruce thought back to their argument. In retrospect, he could exactly pinpoint the second it had all gone down the drain. He sighed. “He narrated to me how he cooked a good meal for his hungover father once. I told him I’m not his father. I meant Willis Todd. Obviously.” 

“I see,” Alfred replied, quietly. Bruce could feel the disappointment radiating from him, despite the man not saying a single word. 

“I wanted him to rest.” Bruce justified. 

“Given young Master Jason's history,” Alfred explained patiently. “We know he must be used to taking care of the people in his life. Beef stew is your favorite sick meal, after all. He learned it for you.” 

“He doesn't have to do that with me,” Bruce argued. “I'm supposed to take care of him, not the other way around.” 

“But I don't suppose the boy understood what you meant, sir,” Alfred said gently. “He saw this as your rejection of him showing compassion and care for you. He shows love the only way he knows how-- by preparing meals, doing chores, easing your tension.” 

“I didn't mean to be rude --”

“-- And,” Alfred interjected. “You told him you're not his father. That's hardly something he'd like to hear, is it?”

“You know the context,” Bruce snapped. He could take care of himself. He knew Jason had a lot of pressure as a child to take care of his irresponsible father and ailing mother. He didn't want to repeat that. As long as Jason lived under his roof, Bruce wanted to make sure he never had to play the role of caregiver again. As daunting the idea of having a son was, this much Bruce had gotten clear. 

“I understand,” Alfred replied simply. “The boy does not. We cannot mince words with children. In a world where adults can hardly understand one another, I don't blame Master Jason for misinterpreting your cues.” 

“I messed up, didn't I?” Bruce asked, resigned, running his hands through his hair. “He doesn't want to speak to me.” 

“I don't blame you either, Master Bruce. You have been through quite the ordeal,” Alfred said, clapping Bruce's shoulder. “But I do request you to talk to him. I don't suppose the boy ate any lunch?” 

“Negative,” Bruce grumbled. “He left all of his stew with me.” It was good food, too. Jason had done a remarkably wonderful job, but eaten absolutely none of it. 

“Then I suppose we have an emergency on our hands. A hungry young boy calls for code red in the Wayne Manor.” 

“Thank you, Alfred.” 

-

Bruce knocked on Jason's door thrice and pressed his ear against the wooden panel. 

“Go away.” came a muffled voice from inside.

“Jason,” Bruce said. “Let me in.” 

“Say the magic word!” Jason hollered from inside. 

“Jay, please let me in.” 

“Say pretty please with Bat-cherries on top!” 

“No patrol for the next three months if you don't open the door in five seconds,” Bruce warned. 

He heard some fumbling from inside the room, and then the door swung open. Jason's hair was rumpled and he was still in the pajamas he was wearing in the morning. “What?” he hissed. 

“May I come in?” 

“So you can yell at me again?” Jason demanded, his hands on his hips. “What's your deal, old man?” 

“I came here to apologize,” Bruce said, gently. “I know you worked hard on that stew but…”

“But?” Jason challenged, staring at Bruce expectantly. 

“But I want you to know you don't have to cook for me,” Bruce finished gently. “I know you've had to fend for yourself and your mother in the past, but that's not how we do things here. If Alfred is gone, you can look to me to manage everything.” 

“It's not about _fending_ for anything ya big boob,” Jason sighed, slapping his forehead. He left the door ajar, making room for Bruce to follow. “It's about making you feel better.” Jason whispered this and stared adamantly at his feet and nowhere else. 

“Oh.” Bruce said, unsure of what to reply to that. His chest felt unreasonably warm and touched in the strangest way possible. 

“And we all know your cooking tastes like shit, so,” Jason interjected hurriedly, his ears turning pink. 

Bruce grabbed both Jason's shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Thank you, Jason. That's very kind of you.” 

“Could you _be_ more robotic?” Jason asked, wriggling away from Bruce's grip. He bounced away and sat on his bed instead. “Anyway, how'd ya like my cooking?” 

“It was wonderful,” Bruce said, holding out a bowl. “I brought some for you.” 

Jason reached out for it slowly, trying to be casual about it, but Bruce noticed the tremble in his hands. He must've been hungry. “I don't want you skipping meals.” Bruce warned. “I don't care if I've upset you to high heaven, you will still eat all three meals a day.” 

“M'kay.” Jason replied distractedly, wolfing down the entire stew in one go. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and grinned at Bruce’s grimace. Bruce sighed.

“Is Alfred upset I didn't come see him?” Jason asked, in a small voice packed with guilt. If anything, Bruce could relate, given how he hated letting Alfred down too. 

“He was worried.” Bruce corrected. 

“Boy, I better go see him, then,” Jason said. “I hope he's brought back that Yorkshire tea he's always talking about.” 

Bruce paused. “Jason, wait.” 

The boy looked up at him expectantly. 

“There's something else,” he said, awkwardly. There was no easy way to say this, but he owed it to the boy. To his partner, both in the suit and out. “About what I said, about not being your father...” 

Jason bit his lip and looked down at his hands. “Oh, it's okay Bruce, I get it. I've been in foster homes before, it's fine if you don't--” 

“That's not what I meant,” Bruce interrupted, putting his hand on Jason's shoulder. “I didn't mean what I said. I meant I'm not Willis Todd. Not the other thing.” 

Jason's eyes widened in surprise. “Oh,” he said, in late realization. “Shit, I guess I'm sorry too, then.” 

“All’s forgiven.” 

Jason began sliding off the bed, but groaned lightly when his feet touched the ground. He immediately sat back down and looked up at Bruce sheepishly. “I, um…” 

“Overworked your leg taking those stairs because you were too angry to think to take the elevator.” Bruce finished for him. 

“Well, when you put it like _that…_ ” 

“Come on,” Bruce said, standing up and holding his arms out. 

“What are you doing?” Jason asked, tilting his head sideways. 

“You're not walking with that leg,” Bruce replied. “Come on.” He beckoned Jason again. 

Jason stood up gingerly and looped his arms around Bruce's shoulders. Bruce lifted him off the bed and began carrying him out of the room. 

Jason buried his head in Bruce's shoulder, his face burning. “This is kind of embarrassing.” 

“You did this to yourself.” Bruce remarked plainly. 

“Technically _you_ did this to me,” Jason pointed out, swatting Bruce's shoulder. “Maybe if you hadn’t been mean to me, I would have still been able to walk.” 

“I'll keep that in mind.” 

“I feel like a child,” Jason grumbled, making himself comfortable nonetheless. Bruce was large and his arms were _very_ warm. 

“You _are_ a child.” Bruce pointed out. “My child.” 

Jason grinned, squeezing Bruce's shoulders into a hug.


End file.
